Nineteen

A NEW SUSPICION

We couldn’t say any more just then because Dr.?Reilly came in, saying jokingly that he’d killedoff the most tiresome¹ of his patients.

He and M.?Poirot settled down to a more or less medical discussion of the psychology² andmental state of an anonymous³ letter- writer. The doctor cited cases that he had knownprofessionally, and M.?Poirot told various stories from his own experience.

“It is not so simple as it seems,” he ended. “There is the desire for power and very often astrong inferiority complex.”

Dr.?Reilly nodded.

“That’s why you often find that the author of anonymous letters is the last person in the placeto be suspected. Some quiet inoffensive little soul who apparently⁴ can’t say Bo to a goose—allsweetness and Christian⁵ meekness⁶ on the outside — and seething⁷ with all the fury of hellunderneath!”

Poirot said thoughtfully: “Should you say Mrs.?Leidner had any tendency to an inferioritycomplex?”

Dr.?Reilly scraped out his pipe with a chuckle⁸.

“Last woman on earth I’d describe that way. No repressions⁹ about her. Life, life and more life—that’s what she wanted—and got, too!”

“Do you consider it a possibility, psychologically speaking, that she wrote those letters?”

“Yes, I do. But if she did, the reason arose out of her instinct to dramatize herself.

Mrs.?Leidner was a bit of a film star in private life! She had to be the centre of things—in thelimelight. By the law of opposites she married Leidner, who’s about the most retiring and modestman I know. He adored her—but adoration¹⁰ by the fireside wasn’t enough for her. She had to bethe persecuted¹¹ heroine as well.”

“In fact,” said Poirot, smiling, “you don’t subscribe¹² to his theory that she wrote them andretained no memory of her act?”

“No, I don’t. I didn’t turn down the idea in front of him. You can’t very well say to a manwho’s just lost a dearly loved wife that that same wife was a shameless exhibitionist, and that shedrove him nearly crazy with anxiety to satisfy her sense of the dramatic. As a matter of fact itwouldn’t be safe to tell any man the truth about his wife! Funnily enough, I’d trust most womenwith the truth about their husbands. Women can accept the fact that a man is a rotter, a swindler, adrugtaker, a confirmed liar¹³, and a general swine without batting an eyelash and without itsimpairing their affection for the brute¹⁴ in the least! Women are wonderful realists.”

“Frankly, Dr.?Reilly, what was your exact opinion of Mrs. Leidner?”

Dr.?Reilly lay back in his chair and puffed¹⁵ slowly at his pipe.

“Frankly—it’s hard to say! I didn’t know her well enough. She’d got charm—any amount ofit. Brains, sympathy .?.?. What else? She hadn’t any of the ordinary unpleasant vices¹⁶. She wasn’tsensual or lazy or even particularly vain. She was, I’ve always thought (but I’ve no proofs of it), amost accomplished¹⁷ liar. What I don’t know (and what I’d like to know) is whether she lied toherself or only to other people. I’m rather partial to liars¹⁸ myself. A woman who doesn’t lie is awoman without imagination and without sympathy. I don’t think she was really a manhunter—shejust liked the sport of bringing them down ‘with my bow and arrow.’ If you get my daughter onthe subject—”

“We have had that pleasure,” said Poirot with a slight smile.

“H’m,” said Dr.?Reilly. “She hasn’t wasted much time! Shoved her knife into her prettythoroughly, I should imagine! The younger generation has no sentiment towards the dead. It’s apity all young people are prigs! They condemn¹⁹ the ‘old morality’ and then proceed to set up amuch more hard-and-fast code of their own. If Mrs.?Leidner had had half a dozen affairs Sheilawould probably have approved of her as ‘living her life fully’—or ‘obeying her blood instincts.’

What she doesn’t see is that Mrs.?Leidner was acting²⁰ true to type—her type. The cat is obeying itsblood instinct when it plays with the mouse! It’s made that way. Men aren’t little boys to beshielded and protected. They’ve got to meet cat women—and faithful spaniel, yours-till-deathadoring women, and hen-pecking nagging²¹ bird women—and all the rest of it! Life’s a battlefield—not a picnic! I’d like to see Sheila honest enough to come off her high horse and admit that shehated Mrs.?Leidner for good old thorough-going personal reasons. Sheila’s about the only younggirl in this place and she naturally assumes that she ought to have it all her own way with theyoung things in trousers. Naturally it annoys her when a woman, who in her view is middle-agedand who has already two husbands to her credit, comes along and licks her on her own ground.

Sheila’s a nice child, healthy and reasonably good-looking and attractive to the other sex as sheshould be. But Mrs.?Leidner was something out of the ordinary in that line. She’d got just that sortof calamitous²² magic that plays the deuce with things—a kind of Belle²³ Dame²⁴ sans Merci.”

I jumped in my chair. What a coincidence his saying that!

“Your daughter—I am not indiscreet—she has perhaps a tendresse for one of the young menout there?”

“Oh, I don’t suppose so. She’s had Emmott and Coleman dancing attendance on her as amatter of course. I don’t know that she cares for one more than the other. There are a couple ofyoung Air Force chaps too. I fancy all’s fish that comes to her net at present. No, I think it’s agedaring to defeat youth that annoys her so much! She doesn’t know as much of the world as I do.

It’s when you get to my age that you really appreciate a schoolgirl complexion²⁵ and a clear eye anda firmly knit young body. But a woman over thirty can listen with rapt attention and throw in aword here and there to show the talker what a fine fellow he is—and few young men can resistthat! Sheila’s a pretty girl—but Louise Leidner was beautiful. Glorious eyes and that amazinggolden fairness. Yes, she was a beautiful woman.”

Yes, I thought to myself, he’s right. Beauty’s a wonderful thing. She had been beautiful. Itwasn’t the kind of looks you were jealous of—you just sat back and admired. I felt that first day Imet her that I’d do anything for Mrs.?Leidner!

All the same, that night as I was being driven back to Tell Yarimjah (Dr.?Reilly made me stayfor an early dinner) one or two things came back to my mind and made me rather uncomfortable.

At the time I hadn’t believed a word of all Sheila Reilly’s outpouring. I’d taken it for sheer spiteand malice²⁶.

But now I suddenly remembered the way Mrs.?Leidner had insisted on going for a stroll byherself that afternoon and wouldn’t hear of me coming with her. I couldn’t help wondering ifperhaps, after all, she had been going to meet Mr.?Carey .?.?. And of course, it was a little odd,really, the way he and she spoke²⁷ to each other so formally. Most of the others she called by theirChristian names.

He never seemed to look at her, I remembered. That might be because he disliked her—or itmight be just the opposite. .?.?.

I gave myself a little shake. Here I was fancying and imagining all sorts of things—allbecause of a girl’s spiteful outburst! It just showed how unkind and dangerous it was to go aboutsaying that kind of thing.

Mrs.?Leidner hadn’t been like that at all. .?.?.

Of course, she hadn’t liked Sheila Reilly. She’d really been—almost catty about her that dayat lunch to Mr.?Emmott.

Funny, the way he’d looked at her. The sort of way that you couldn’t possibly tell what hewas thinking. You never could tell what Mr.?Emmott was thinking. He was so quiet. But very nice.

A nice dependable person.

Now Mr.?Coleman was a foolish young man if there ever was?one!

I’d got to that point in my meditations²⁸ when we arrived. It was just on nine o’clock and thebig door was closed and barred.

Ibrahim came running with his great key to let me in.

We all went to bed early at Tell Yarimjah. There weren’t any lights showing in the livingroom. There was a light in the drawing office and one in Dr.?Leidner’s office, but nearly all theother windows were dark. Everyone must have gone to bed even earlier than usual.

As I passed the drawing office to go to my room I looked in. Mr.?Carey was in his shirtsleeves working over his big plan.

Terribly ill, he looked, I thought. So strained and worn. It gave me quite a pang²⁹. I don’t knowwhat there was about Mr.?Carey—it wasn’t what he said because he hardly said anything—andthat of the most ordinary nature, and it wasn’t what he did, for that didn’t amount to much either—and yet you just couldn’t help noticing him, and everything about him seemed to matter more thanit would have about anyone else. He just counted, if you know what I mean.

He turned his head and saw me. He removed his pipe from his mouth and said: “Well, nurse,back from Hassanieh?”

“Yes, Mr.?Carey. You’re up working late. Everybody else seems to have gone to bed.”

“I thought I might as well get on with things,” he said.

“I was a bit behind-hand. And I shall be out on the dig all tomorrow. We’re starting diggingagain.”

“Already?” I asked, shocked.

He looked at me rather queerly.

“It’s the best thing, I think. I put it up to Leidner. He’ll be in Hassanieh most of tomorrowseeing to things. But the rest of us will carry on here. You know it’s not too easy all sitting roundand looking at each other as things are.”

He was right there, of course. Especially in the nervy, jumpy state everyone was in.

“Well, of course you’re right in a way,” I said. “It takes one’s mind off if one’s got somethingto do.”

The funeral, I knew, was to be the day after tomorrow.

He had bent³⁰ over his plan again. I don’t know why, but my heart just ached for him. I feltcertain that he wasn’t going to get any sleep.

“If you’d like a sleeping draught³¹, Mr.?Carey?” I said hesitatingly.

He shook his head with a smile.

“I’ll carry on, nurse. Bad habit, sleeping draughts³².”

“Well, good night, Mr.?Carey,” I said. “If there’s anything I can do—”

“Don’t think so, thank you, nurse. Good night.”

“I’m terribly sorry,” I said, rather too impulsively³³ I suppose.

“Sorry?” He looked surprised.

“For—for everybody. It’s all so dreadful. But especially for you.”

“For me? Why for me?”

“Well, you’re such an old friend of them both.”

“I’m an old friend of Leidner’s. I wasn’t a friend of hers particularly.”

He spoke as though he had actually disliked her. Really, I wished Miss?Reilly could haveheard him!

“Well, good night,” I said and hurried along to my room.

I fussed around a bit in my room before undressing. Washed out some handkerchiefs and apair of wash-leather gloves and wrote up my diary. I just looked out of my door again before Ireally started to get ready for bed. The lights were still on in the drawing office and in the southbuilding.

I suppose Dr.?Leidner was still up and working in his office. I wondered whether I ought togo and say good night to him. I hesitated about it—I didn’t want to seem officious. He might bebusy and not want to be disturbed. In the end, however, a sort of uneasiness drove me on. Afterall, it couldn’t do any harm. I’d just say goodnight, ask if there was anything I could do and comeaway.

But Dr.?Leidner wasn’t there. The office itself was lit up but there was no one in it exceptMiss?Johnson. She had her head down on the table and was crying as though her heart wouldbreak.

It gave me quite a turn. She was such a quiet, self-controlled woman. It was pitiful to see her.

“Whatever is it, my dear?” I cried. I put my arm round her and patted her. “Now, now, thiswon’t do at all .?.?. You mustn’t sit here crying all by yourself.”

She didn’t answer and I felt the dreadful shuddering³⁴ sobs³⁵ that were racking her.

“Don’t, my dear, don’t,” I said. “Take a hold on yourself. I’ll go and make you a cup of nicehot tea.”

She raised her head and said: “No, no, its all right, nurse. I’m being a fool.”

“What’s upset you, my dear?” I asked.

She didn’t answer at once, then she said: “It’s all too awful. .?.?.”

“Now don’t start thinking of it,” I told her. “What’s happened has happened and can’t bemended. It’s no use fretting³⁶.”

She sat up straight and began to pat her hair.

“I’m making rather a fool of myself,” she said in her gruff voice. “I’ve been clearing up andtidying the office. Thought it was best to do something. And then—it all came over me suddenly—”

“Yes, yes,” I said hastily. “I know. A nice strong cup of tea and a hot-water bottle in your bedis what you want,” I said.

And she had them too. I didn’t listen to any protests.

“Thank you, nurse,” she said when I’d settled her in bed, and she was sipping³⁷ her tea and thehot-water bottle was in. “You’re a nice kind sensible woman. It’s not often I make such a fool ofmyself.”

“Oh, anybody’s liable to do that at a time like this,” I said. “What with one thing and another.

The strain and the shock and the police here, there and everywhere. Why, I’m quite jumpymyself.”

She said slowly in rather a queer voice: “What you said in there is true. What’s happened hashappened and can’t be mended. .?.?.”

She was silent for a minute or two and then said—rather oddly, I thought: “She was never anice woman!”

Well, I didn’t argue the point. I’d always felt it was quite natural for Miss?Johnson andMrs.?Leidner not to hit it off.

I wondered if, perhaps, Miss?Johnson had secretly had a feeling that she was pleasedMrs.?Leidner was dead, and had then been ashamed of herself for the thought.

I said: “Now you go to sleep and don’t worry about anything.”

I just picked up a few things and set the room to rights. Stockings over the back of the chairand coat and skirt on a hanger³⁸. There was a little ball of crumpled³⁹ paper on the floor where it musthave fallen out of a pocket.

I was just smoothing it out to see whether I could safely throw it away when she quite startledme.

“Give that to me!”

I did so—rather taken aback. She’d called out so peremptorily⁴⁰. She snatched it from me—fairly snatched it—and then held it in the candle flame till it was burnt to ashes.

As I say, I was startled—and I just stared at her.

I hadn’t had time to see what the paper was—she’d snatched it so quick. But funnily enough,as it burned it curled over towards me and I just saw that there were words written in ink on thepaper.

It wasn’t till I was getting into bed that I realized why they’d looked sort of familiar to me.

It was the same handwriting as that of the anonymous letters.

Was that why Miss?Johnson had given way to a fit of remorse⁴¹? Had it been her all along whohad written those anonymous letters?

 

点击收听单词发音